


Burn the Heart Out of You

by nikkipm, RSMelodyMalone, TigersPat, Tindomerelhloni



Series: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Greg, Burns, Feels, Greg Lestarde - Freeform, Implied Johnbastian, Implied Mystrade, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, John and Sherlock fighting, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Torture, Tortured John, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkipm/pseuds/nikkipm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RSMelodyMalone/pseuds/RSMelodyMalone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigersPat/pseuds/TigersPat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is along the same lines as the last fic I posted.</p><p>This was some friends and I sort of half role playing, half just making up our own story. This is an AU where Moriarty comes BACK after the fall, and doesn't take kindly to John and Sebastian having had a relationship.</p><p>There is torture, though that part is over quick, and it is not terribly graphic. </p><p>I'm proably going to be posting our "RP's" out of the order in which they happened, so please feel free to ask where in the timeline this fits in.</p><p>This fits in before "Talking Dirty"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Heart Out of You

**Author's Note:**

> Toward the end of the fic, this is the device that Jim uses: https://www.behance.net/gallery/18954023/Bolito-device-from-The-Counselor-movie-(Cartel)
> 
> I'm far too lazy/tired to edit this for typo's tonight, so please feel free to point out any to us, and we'll be fixing them shortly.

**221B Baker Street:**

Jim Moriarty suddenly steps into 221B Baker Street, pushing the door open with his foot. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his expensive suit, hair immaculately combed, and a smug smile fixed on his face.

“Sorry boys ! We are late but traffic was terrible.” He declares as he and Moran push into the flat where John and Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa. Sitting very closely together, he noted. “I hope the tea is ready.”

Sebastian Moran chuckled lightly and shook his head at the entrance. "Sorry about that. Though I did warn you, John." Referring to the warning text he had sent earlier he gave a grim grin then stepped inside and forcefully sat down between John and Sherlock.

John budges up on the sofa, feeling his skin prickle at the sudden contact with Sebastian, and wonders briefly if Sherlock is suspicious. He always knew that he would (willingly) tell Sherlock about his past with Sebastian, he  just... wasn't planning on it so soon after they'd finally gotten together.

"Yeah, you did warn me. Thanks for that, I guess." John mutters then turns to look at Moriarty, addressing his question regarding tea. "No, the tea is  _ not  _ ready, we've already had ours."

Jim Looks blankly at Sebastian to not betray his jealousy and walks over to the fireplace, turning his back to the room and it’s occupants. John briefly finds himself wondering if, like Magnussen, Jim was about to urinate in it. But instead he runs his fingers over the dusty mantel, and traces the outline of Sherlock’s bug collection.

“Well, we can wait for the tea then, we're not in a hurry... right, Moran?”  He touches Sherlock's skull before leaning against the fireplace, brushing the dust between his fingers. “Where's the landlady when you need her?” he adds with a devious grin. 

"Of course we can wait, sir." Sebastian hummed and tried to stay at least a bit professional. It wouldn't do them any good if he attacked Jim's authority in front of the other two men, especially in front of Sherlock. Sighing softly at the Irishman's last comment, the blond just rolled his eyes and turned to John slightly. He had, of course, noticed the way how the other soldier had tensed and to be quite honest the sniper didn't feel much different. Licking his lips slightly, he grinned. 

"So how have you been John? Better I assume considering that you already have Sherlock back for a whole year now”

John glances over at Sherlock, who's busy taking everything in, analyzing the situation, no doubt then he uncomfortably clears his throat.  

“Sherlock might have been back for a year... but... I was married... wasn't around much, until a few weeks ago.” John realizes that's probably too much information to share with someone you should only know because you shot him nearly 18 months ago, he gets up and gruffly mutters “I'll make tea. Mrs. Hudson is out.”

Moriarty narrows his eyes as John leaves the room, the smirk on his face grew as the army doctor left his detective's side. “He's being really talkative for a soldier... Not that his sexual life would interest me though.” Moriarty’s gaze locks finally with Sherlock's and he becomes serious again. “And here is the other ghost. 'Came back for your puppy, dear?” Jim points into the kitchen where Watson is making tea.

Sebastian Moran glares at Jim in warning again. After a moment of Sherlock and Jim exchanging what Sebastian could only exchange as an ‘evil glare’ he stands and follows John into the kitchen. stood up and followed John. He quickly slides the double doors that separated the kitchen from the lounge closed and sighs.    
  
"I'm really sorry about this. I would have warned you beforehand if I knew." The blond murmured and ran his hand through his hair. "Worst thing probably is that I really want to kiss you right now." Chuckling lowly, the retired sniper winked and pushed himself away from the doors.    
  
John places the kettle down on the stove to boil and throws his head back, letting out a long sigh and slumping with his back against the counter.   
  
“Sebby…we.. we can’t. Alright?” John begins, glancing at his former lover, hoping he would understand. “You’re clearly with that arsehole now, and well, I’m with Sherlock. What do you expect? Them to walk in, see us making out, and say: ‘Oh! Wonderful! We see you’ve already started the Orgy! Here, John, let me help you with your belt!” 

"Fuck, I know." Sebastian whispered in a harsh hiss and leaned against the door again.. "You know I'm pretty open with what I want." He pointed out and closed his eyes for a moment. "I guess I just kind of miss it. It was so easy. Nothing to think about afterwards." The blond continued on with a frown before pushing himself hard off the door. Closing the space between himself and John to quickly press his lips against the Doctor’s. He stepped away just as quickly and smirked. "Couldn't help myself." 

John's heart leaps in his chest and he reaches out for Seb just as he steps out of his reach. John shakes his head and touches his fingers to his lips. The feeling of Sebastian’s kiss still lingering, a phantom reminder of what they once had. While their relationship had been less than healthy, it had been hot.

“Oi... didn't have to bite. Sherlock will notice!” John’s heart sank… Sherlock… What would he tell Sherlock. He wouldn’t hide this from him, but he needed to be able to bring it up on his own terms…  _ After  _ Moriarty had left their home. “Fuck, Seb... It was easy. But it wasn't a healthy relationship... I mean, I tried to kill you for Christ's sake!” John glanced at Sebastian, who stood between himself and the door. “Christ, why'd you have to shut the door?”   
  
John is now fighting the urge to surge forward and press Sebastian up against that frosted glass door, hard. But he restrained himself, reminding himself that he was with Sherlock. He wouldn’t do that to Sherlock, no matter how good of a kisser Sebastian was.

“Listen... you.. god, It was great. Hell,” John scrubs his hands over his face, his shoulders drooping and his mind fighting with his carnal desires. “ _ You _ were great. Fuck.. that thing you did with your tongue? Yeah, miss that.”

"Jim and I are trying to kill each other on a regular basis. I don't think healthy relationships exist for me." Sebastian mumbled as he licked his lips absently minded. "But I know that you're with Sherlock and all of that. Hell, if Jim finds out I kissed you, I'm screwed six ways to Sunday but it was fucking worth it." He added in a breathy chuckle, stretching and showing off his body a bit. 

John is forced to squeeze his eyes shut at the sight, but all he can see is lingering images of Sebastian  _ and  _ Sherlock, dancing in front of his closed eyes. Both naked, both gorgeous, and now both equally as scarred. Sherlock from his weeks of torture, Sebastian from hard military life. 

“Sebby…”John growls in warning, but it is only halfhearted… He hates himself for it, but he doesn’t fully mean it. Sebastian's shirt, due to his twisting and stretching, pulls out of his trousers and reveals the scar on his abdomen from where John had shot him, and his heart beats just a tiny bit faster. “I... I can't…”

John was saved from any further mumbling by a loud clatter coming from the lounge. Both John and Sebastian turn to look towards the noise, but neither wish to break their privacy by opening the door, because closing it again would seem more suspicious than things already must be.

“I can't kiss you... I can't.” John hissed quickly as Sebastian took advantage of the confusion of the moment and stepped closer to him. Despite himself he let his eyes wander down Sebastian’s body, then back up, lingering on his lips. “Though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want too.”

There was a second crash. It echoed through the kitchen, Sebastian's hand immediately went to his belt where his gun was normally located and he sighed when he grabbed into nothingness. The growl John emitted however made the man's focused quickly change back to the doctor and he gulped. There was no denying that he was very attracted to the other man, not in the same way as it was with Jim, but he and John had other things in common, things the criminal mastermind could never understand. Noticing John's wandering gaze, the retired sniper couldn’t help but lick his lips again teasingly. 

"I want to as well. Fuck, I would take you against the door if it weren't for the two men in the living room." He confessed and slowly stepped closer to the army doctor, cupping his cheek. "The fact that we can't is only making this so much hotter though." Moran placed a hand on John’s face, his thumb swiping John’s ear.

John practically purrs as he nuzzles into Moran's touch. Moran had been the reason John hadn't offed himself while Sherlock was gone. Everyone thought it was Mary who'd helped him through it, brought him back from the brink of despair... But it had been this man, this warm, wonderful man. While it hadn't been what John would describe as love, there certainly was something between them. That “something” was closer to some form of lust, a burning desire that, apparently, hadn't ever gone away, than love.

“Colonel....” John surprised himself, the pet name slipping out of his lips before he even realized what he had said. He shivered and closed his eyes, daring the other man to both step aside, and step closer.

Sebastian's grin widened slightly when he felt the other man lean into the touch and he continued to caress his cheek. At the pet name though a low growl rumbled in his throat. "Captain..." He responded before pressing John up against the next wall as fast and hard as he could with his whole body. Leaning closer, he let their lips brush in a teasing manner. "What do you want, my little lion?" 

There was a very important reason why Sebastian hadn’t wanted Jim to kill the doctor currently trapped between him and a wall. The man had saved his life in multiple ways and on multiple occasions and the blond was grateful for that. Of course something developed between them over time and the sniper was sure he would never be able to fully ignore the pull John had on him. 

John's breathing is now coming in hard, ragged breaths, and he doesn't fight Moran. Instead he's happy to be pushed around, knowing despite just how very dangerous this man was,  _ he  _ was safe.

“I want…” John put his hands on Moran's forearms, and smirked a little as his fingers encountered a mass of muscle. Moran had bulked up since the last time they'd been together, and his forearms were now rock hard.  “I want to be able to kiss you.... But I also don't want to hurt either of our partners. Well, Sherlock. I don’t give a fuck about, that fuckwad you’re with. Also,” John leaned forward and pressed his body up against Moran’s. “I know you don't have a gun, so are you just happy to see me?”

"I most definitely am happy to see you." The sniper purred and shamelessly pressed his hips against John's while he inched closer to the man, pushing him back against the glass door. "If we play this right they will not find out about it. Maybe the crash came from from them fucking like rabbits already. You never know with Jim." He whispered while rolling his hips against the smaller man in a slow and steady pace. Tilting his head slightly, Sebastian grinned darkly and pressed their lips back together silently while one hand wandered into John's hair. Fuck, he had really missed this over the last few months.

John's hands both fly into Moran's hair, tugging at his now much longer locks. His lips smash against Sebastian's and their tongues collide together. John hums, his hands slide down Sebastian's neck, down his back, gripping at his arse before they're both suddenly startled by the kettle as it whistles. 

“Fuck… I’d forgotten about the kettle.” John curses and pulls his lips away from Moran, just as their erections roll up against each other.

“Tea... If we don't…” Sebastian growled and leaned in for one last hard desperate kiss that rattled John to the bone, and it took John a moment to remember what he’d been saying. If we don't bring out tea, then they will begin to wonder…” John’s heart drops, he’d just let Sebastian kiss him. And he would have to explain all this to Sherlock. 

Before Sebastian pulled away he let his hands wander under John’s shirt, eager to finally feel bare skin again. When John pulls away the sniper has half a mind to just pin the man down and continue their little session. Taking a few deep breathes to calm him down once the doctor stepped to the other side of the kitchen, the sniper cursed lowly. 

"Yeah, you're right... Let's fix us up a bit.." He murmured breathlessly while running a hand through his hair, trying to sort himself out and willed his erection away.

Sighing John surprises himself and steals one more hard kiss, initiating it himself, cupping Moran's groin. For old time’s sake, he told himself.

“Maybe I can get Sherlock to invite you into our bed…” 

"Of course. Don't leave me hanging." Sebastian whispered dangerously and squeezed the other man's arse before helping him to bring the tea out, a mask of perfect composure sliding over his face even at the scene in front of him. 

Sitting in his chair, in front of the fireplace, staring at Moriarty, who was still tossing his personal belongings off on the mantle. Sherlock remained silent, taking everything in. As John and Sebastian walked back into the room Sherlock’s focus snapped to the two men and he stared hard at his doctor, who had  _ finally  _ emerged from the kitchen with the tea. His first comment since the arrival of Moriarty and Moran was (quite stonily) directed toward John.

“I suppose the extra time you took in the kitchen to prepare tea was also an opportunity for the two of you to catch up?”

If the icy tone hadn’t been enough, one look at Sherlock and John knew he was fucked. However, before John had time to say anything, or to pull Sherlock aside and offer a full explanation (and apology) his mobile buzzed. Without even looking at the screen he knew it was Mycroft. Somehow, the elder Holmes knew of what had just happened.

“Uh…” John looks to his mobile.  _ “Doctor Watson. My office immediately! The car outside is for you... You know the drill. Anthea is waiting. Chop chop.” _  then to Sherlock and offers him a sad smile. “Mycroft. Insisting I go... If he doesn't kill me, or you don't change the locks, I'll be back later, Sherlock.” 

Standing Sherlock smooths down his suit jacket and walks over to the door and snatches Belstaff and scarf off the coat rack. 

“The last person on earth to  _ need  _ you, Dr. Watson, would be Mycroft Holmes. Since you're so acquainted with our, guests, why don't you stay here and entertain them!” Sherlock whirls out of the flat and slams the front door behind him. 

Sebastian blinked in surprise at the exchange and his eyes widened a fraction when first Sherlock, then John left the flat. Feeling himself tense, he slowly turned to Jim who was now completely aware of the situation as well. For a long while Jim Moriarty stays still and drinks his tea with a dark, mysterious smile.

“I guess I have all my answers and, now so does Sherlock.” He says in a singsong, yet deadly voice. With a sick smile painted on his face he finishes his tea, only stirring when his mobile buzzed, an anonymous text from one of his contacts. 

“Well, I'd better be of, looks like Mycroft's dogs are on their way.” Moriarty adjusts his tie and leaved the flat without even arguing, which was not a good sign for Sebastian. Sebastian, watching the criminal carefully, followed him out of the flat.

 

**The office of Mycroft Holmes:**

Mycroft Holmes waits in his office, stewing in silent wrath. Anthea sends a text to his mobile, letting him know that John Watson was in the car and on his way. Mycroft stands, goes over to his in office bar, takes out two tumblers, and pours a generous amount of whiskey into each, setting one beside the chair intended for Watson. After pacing for a few moments Mycroft sits in the large chair behind his desk and nurses his drink. 

Ten minutes later John Watson sullenly enters the office and sits, ignoring the whiskey. Wordlessly John stares at Mycroft and waits, knowing that no matter what he says, truth or not, it won't make a difference. After three full minutes of silence John’s vision shifts to the oil painting of a waterfall that hung on the wall to Mycroft’s left. Another five minutes pass, and John finally reaches for the glass and clears his throat.

“Are you going to have me murdered? Or are you saving that for…” John can't bring himself to say Sherlock's name as he stares down into the far too full cup. “your.. Brother?”

Another five minutes….

“Oh for Christ's sake. Bloody say something, Mycroft! You called me here, grow and pair of balls and tell me why! Unless.... You left your balls with Greg.” John sits back, anger prickling its way up his spine, hoping the whiskey will help dull both the anger and guilt, he takes a rather large sip then continues staring at Mycroft.

“I think you know why, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft sips his whiskey and watches John with a far superior air. “You and a Mister Sebastian Moran... Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.” John retorts, putting his now half empty glass down. “What's it matter to you anyway? Don't trust Sherlock to fight his own battles. Because clearly this is none of your business.” 

“I see... So my little brother is none of my business now, is he? The boy I practically raised by myself, the one who I found numerous times, overdosed on drugs and had to rush to hospital... You know, Sherlock and I have never really seen eye to eye but for a very,  _ very  _ long time, I was the only one who was there for him. Has he told you about how I sat by his bedside day and night until he was released from hospital. How I was so worried he'd never wake up.” Mycroft fixes John with an icy stare. “That is why, Doctor Watson, I look out for him. Why I hire people to keep an eye on him for me when I can't do it. I care dearly for my brother. Not that you would have noticed as you were too busy trying to get into Mr. Moran's pants!” 

Mycroft leans forward over his desk, fingers clasped together, but two long index fingers pointing at John accusingly. “I told you to protect him.”

“Do you know how many people I have trailing him right now, because in any situation which he's hurt, upset or mad…” Mycroft sneers at John, “he could easily decide to use again!” Mycroft Holmes drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Do you even  _ care  _ about him? Because from where I'm sitting, you couldn't give two shits about Sherlock! I told you I can make people disappear and I'm not saying I'm going to do that... But if you carry on hurting my brother like you're doing right now... I see no choice.”

Mycroft sits back and flicks open a file that had been sitting on the desk. Inside was a very short list of the few precious people Sherlock Holmes had become close too. Mrs. Hudson, Miss Molly Hooper, DI Lestrade, Miss Adler… And then under enemies, Mr. James Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran. 

“I'm not in any way doing this for myself, you,” the file snaps shut and Mycroft eyes John, his anger finally showing behind that icy mask. “Or anybody else for that matter. The only person I’m doing this for, and who actually matters, is Sherlock.”

John forces a hard breath out of his nose but says nothing, so Mycroft continues his lecture.

“What exactly are your intentions with Mister Moran, huh? Casual sex… Love… Or were you just’ trying to hurt my brother?”

John Watson’s blood boils. Not being a man able to hide his anger in the best of situations he clenches his fists so hard his short nails dig into his palms. Looking Mycroft dead in the eye he growls between clenched teeth. 

“I was going to talk to him, until you fucking pulled me away from him!” John took a moment to collect his thoughts through the blazing rage that was nearly blinding him.

“I have no future intentions with Moran! He fucking cornered me. What I did was wrong, and I'll gladly accept whatever decision  _ Sherlock  _ comes to. But Mycroft, this is one battle you cannot fight for him! Right now, he and I need to... god, I don't know. fight it out, talk it out... Anything but  _ this _ ! Me, being here, well it is  _ not _ helping!” 

John is shouting now, both hands trembling on his lap. He doesn’t care that Mycroft is watching him break down, he doesn’t care that the brother of the main he loves is witnessing his anger first hand. Nothing matters right now, nothing except getting back to Sherlock and making this right. 

“I need to get on bloody my knees and beg for Sherlock's forgiveness. Because what I did... what happened.. inexcusable, and I'm disgusted with myself.”

**“** He cornered you? So what? You didn't want it? Are you saying he forced himself on you without your consent? Because if that's the case, I shall ring my boyfriend who I  _ haven't  _ cheated on and get him to take a statement from you... Of course, Moran shall be arrested straight away and released on bail. I have to warn you though, these things take time and justice is something that has a 50% chance of even happening. You could be waiting months... Even years... For this to go to court but if he 'cornered' you and you said no but it happened anyway... Than this is a completely different situation…” 

“Or is that not what happened, John?” Mycroft glared at John, his face icy and free of expressions. “Were you able to say no but chose not to?”

John glares at Mycroft, letting all his contempt and resentment for the elder brother show between his furrowed brows. He unclenches his fists and flexes his sore fingers before letting his eyes fall to the floor between his feet.  

“I  _ did  _ say no... but didn't mean it. And he knew it. He knows me too well. I let him corner me. And when he kissed me, I didn't hate it, didn't recoil, didn't fight him off.” John whispers dejectedly, his heart sinking lower and lower into his stomach.  “Is that what you want to hear, Mycroft? That I cheated on Sherlock?” John scoffs, angry at himself and not caring if it showed. “Because I did, and it's making me sick to my stomach.”

“No, Doctor Watson, despite what you might think of me, I don't want to hear that you cheated on Sherlock. I called you here because I want to know  _ why _ . If you love my brother like you say you do, you wouldn't sleep with another man... Or woman.” Mycroft’s voice was near mocking now. “Me and Gregory haven't been together that long but I would never consider cheating on him... You know why?... Because I care about him.”

Mycroft pauses, takes a slow sip from his whiskey tumbler, then takes a deep breath.

“Obviously Sherlock knew what you'd done straight away... He's not an idiot, Doctor Watson. And I know him. Though he might not show it, much  like I don't, we both still have feelings and hearts. And his is currently breaking knowing his boyfriend, the only person he's trusted in a  _ very long time,  _ fell for another man.”   
  
Mycroft looked at his pocket watch, then back at John.  “What is your plan?”

**“** Mycroft…” John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face before taking another sip if his whiskey.  “Other than to  _ talk _ to Sherlock, have no bloody idea. I need to talk with him, if he'll let me. And apologize. It sure as fuck won't happen again, which, you of all people should know just by looking at me.” John shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable, but deciding it was in his best interest to answer Mycroft’s questions with as little snark as possible. “I do care about Sherlock... more than I've cared about anyone. Ever. He's the only person, only thing, that matters to me. Though I didn't exactly show that today. But I'll do whatever I can to show him he can trust me again, that I've only got eyes for him... I screwed up,, and it's my own goddamn fault.”

**“** Well you clearly haven't only got eyes for him otherwise this would never have happened...

I can't speak for my brother. I cannot tell you if he will or will  _ not  _ forgive you. But what I can say is even if he seems okay to you, he isn't and won't be for a long time. It will take him some time to actually trust you again and as for Moran.” Mycroft sneered, his pompous nose pointing down at John. “I'd stick to only seeing him when you're around other people and don't even think about going off to another room or to the shops with him. That won't look good to Sherlock, myself or anybody else who knows or will know about this situation.”

If I was you,” Mycroft continued, “I'd give him some space... Not too much time. I have people watching him, so no need to worry about his safety. But you should but go for a walk, clear your head... Do  _ not  _ go to the pub and drown your sorrows... That will only be self-pitying and Sherlock doesn't like that sort of thing. Don't constantly go on about it... Don't let him down and for god's sake don't ever do this again or I will have to get more involved than I have already done and that isn't something neither you or Sherlock want. Am I clear? If I hear about anything like this again... I will not be best pleased.”

John’s anger has now gotten the best of him. It was one thing for Mycroft to want to look out for his little brother, but how  _ dare  _ he tell John want to do as if he were a child! This was between himself and Sherlock, and sitting here, listening to Mycroft prattle on about how much he screwed up, wasn’t going to solve anything.

“Listen. I appreciate you looking out for him. Really I do.  But this was a mistake. A terrible one. And  _ my _ mistake. Yeah, you heard me right, I'll be the first to admit that I fucked up. Regardless of any past history with Moran. I don't plan on seeing him again, under any circumstances. You have my permission to kidnap me and lock me up before that happens. 

But you won't have too. I promise. If Sherlock takes me back I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to him. And not out of guilt, though I am feeling incredibly guilty, but because he deserves it.He only deserves the best. 

Should I say that I fucked up again? Will that help?” John is now, despite himself, nearly in tears, and his head his spinning, both from emotions and the alcohol. Mycroft give John a very long, and very hard stare, and after coming to what appears to be a conclusion, he sits back and unfolds his hands.

“Right... Well you better keep to your word or it'll be much worse than kidnap and locking you up. I hope you know that I'm only doing this for his benefit and not because I'm a mean older brother. Now, you're free to go... But I'll be watching you, Doctor Watson.  And any mistake... Any at all... You'll know about it. As will I.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows and waves his hand in the direction of the door. “Goodbye, John.”

John doesn’t need a second invitation to leave the dark office. He rises from his chair, straightens his jacket and leaves the room. He keeps his eyes on the floor, not wanting to be required to smile at anyone he passes by. As he turns a corner he doesn’t notice the person coming the opposite way, and bumps headlong into him. Those shoes, the trousers… that jacket… He’d bumped into Sherlock. 

"John." Sherlock’s voice is soft, angry, and thick with emotion. 

“Sherlock…” John doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eye. He’s just about to apologize for bumping into him when Sherlock’s hand grabs his elbow and pulls him back towards Mycroft’s office, the very last place John wanted to return too.

As they entered Mycroft’s office Sherlock tosses his coat and scarf down onto the sofa and flashes a look at his brother that warns him that any attempt to speak or butt in will not be appreciated. After a few moments of reckless pacing, and a rather chaotic attempt to sort through the swirl of emotions, Sherlock whirls to face John.

“What the hell was going on in the kitchen with you and Sebastian Moran? Oh, wait! I know! You were catching up on old times....and the sexual affair you had while I was away! You left me  _ alone  _ in the sitting room with Jim Moriarty! What is god's name is wrong with you, Dr. Watson?!?

“Sexual Affair!” John shouts back, slightly glad that they were actually fighting this out, but more angry than he had any right to be. “It would only have been an affair if I was in a bloody relationship while you were away! And even if  _ we  _ had been in one, you let me believe you were sodding  _ dead! _ Because you were too brilliant to let me in on you and, “John motions towards the thankfully silent Mycroft, “ _ his  _ plan!”

John runs a hand over his face then sinks into the chair he’d only just recently abandoned, but turns it so his back is to Mycroft.

“I left the lounge because I couldn't been in the same fucking room as either of them. For two very different reasons! Don't you  _ enjoy  _ being alone... I rather vividly recall you telling me ‘Alone,’ how'd you word it? Ah yes, ‘protects me.’!” John is leaning forward in his chair, head in his hands, fingers grabbing at small tufts of hair.

Still pacing about the room Sherlock's hands fly into the air and he shouts back, “You should know by now that I  _ had _ to pretend I was dead in order to protect my family and friends. Which  _ included _ you!” Sherlock is close to screaming, this is the single most largest outpouring of emotion John had ever witnessed coming from Sherlock, and it only broke his heart more knowing he had caused this. “Do you think it was  _ easy  _ to be underground for  _ two _ goddamn years?! I can assure you, it most definitely was not.” 

**“** But you,” John’s voice is deadly cold, level and perfectly even. He stands, walks within an inch of Sherlock and whispers, “you  _ never _ miss speak. You’re Sherlock  _ Bloody _ Holmes, never say something unless it matters, or it proves that you’re right! So, why did you say  _ sexual affair!”  _

_ “ _ Matching John's cold, even tone, Sherlock retorts, “At least your war duties didn't affect your hearing, doctor. Yes, I did say sexual affair. It was plainly obvious the very moment Moran walked into the room that you and he had participated in a  _ consensual, sexual affair!” _ ”

“There's that word again...Affair! Yes, he and I had sex. Quite a bit of it, in fact. But it was never an affair. The only person I had  _ ever  _ loved in this world was dead. I was told to move on. By your own brother, in fact!”

Sherlock stops pacing and sits down heavily on the edge of the couch and looks up John.

“I am fully aware of the toll my.... _ departure _ ...took on you, but I was under the impression that you had decided to play the good heterosexual doctor with the nurse wife. You never mentioned that there was a, relationship with a man during my, time away.”

John glances briefly glance over at Mycroft, more than grateful for his silence then he cautiously move to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, leaving a little bit of space out of respect for Sherlock’s feelings.

“You already knew about Sholto. Probably guessed it at my wedding” John is talking softly now, trying to keep his anger bay. He wasn’t actually angry at Sherlock, he was pissed at himself for hurting the precious creature beside him. “I... should have told you about Seb... But.. it was never love between us. It was... a fix, a high, something we both grew addicted too. I assume your brother told you about the 6 months or so I fell off the radar.”

John sighs and sits back, keeping his hands to himself on his lap. The distance betwen them feel like he could fit a whole universe in the void.

“I went to kill him, Sherlock. I knew he was one of the snipers at the pool, hell Mary probably was too... I knew he played a part in your death. I had him in my sights... but he was just as broken as I was. He just shrugged, as if to say thank you.

At the last second, just before I squeezed the trigger, I had a change of heart. Shot went clean through his stomach, missed vital organs. I nursed him back to health, during that time we talked. It just.. spiraled, Sherlock… Mycroft shifts in his chair, clearing finding some of what John was saying surprising.

“Today... what happened, what I did. Was wrong... I'd use the excuse that I couldn't help myself... But, “John glanced down at his hands, which were now twitching, “I found myself craving his touch, wanting another fix.” 

Sherlock turns and faces John, and takes a deep, somewhat ragged, breath. “Is it over with Moran? Since he is obviously back in your life. I know that what I put you through, well it was tragic...and, inexcusable. But you must understand: I did what I had to do.” Sherlock looks away from the doctor, “I just need you to tell me...will you be leaving me to resume your relationship with Moran?”

Though perhaps not the best way to respond, John snorts at the very thought of leaving Sherlock and he shakes his head so hard it hurts. He turns towards Sherlock, and is about to place a hand on his knee when he thinks better of it.  “Not leaving you... Ever. If you'll have me. Though, if I am to be honest, I did  _ want  _ to shag his brains out. I would  _ never _ but… I wanted too. Probably not what you want to hear, but... I'd rather be honest with you, and get it all out in the open now.

Sherlock looks down at John’s twitching hands with no emotion or pity, scrunches up his face into a look of pure rage. “So, let me see if I've gotten this straight: You love me, you never want to leave me, but, when my arch enemy brings his lackey with him to the flat....you want to  _ FUCK HIS BRAINS OUT _ ?! Did I get that correct, doctor?” Sherlock stands and walks over to the window....feeling a bit flushed, he leans his forehead against the cool glass.

John sighs and nods, then hangs his head. “ Yeah... Believe me, I know how fucked I am. I don't expect sympathy. I have or  _ had _ , you. You're all I've ever wanted. All I need. I'm not settling, by choosing you. Not at all.  Sherlock... I don't know how the hell to tell you what's going on in my head... I don't.. I wish I could. I just…”

“Sherlock…” John watches Sherlock with sagging shoulders. The distance between them, though only a few feet, felt astronomical. John stands and makes his way to the dorm deciding to leave before things got worse. After all, that was his MO to run off when things got tough rather than to face it. He pauses with his hand on the handle and says in a small sad voice. 

“I fucked up Sherlock. And I hurt you. I should have told him to bugger off the second he entered the kitchen. Shouldn't have let him touch me. I shouldn't have touched him. But,  _ most important _ . I shouldn't have left you. That's unforgivable. And, if you give me the chance, it won't  _ ever  _ happen again. Any of it. I'll... Kip on Greg's sofa or something tonight… I really am sorry... For what it's worth; I love you.”

Sherlock continues resting his forehead on the window. He straightens up a bit in order to see the reflection of John standing in the doorway. After a moment he straightens up fully, turns but does not look at the doctor.

“John, I know that being gone for two years under the pretense that I was deceased caused you severe trauma but, I am back and will never again have to orchestrate such an endeavor. I also understand that you had to have, certain coping mechanisms, in order to process my absence. However, I was very much under the impression that we were, partners, companions, yet, the moment your ex-lover enters the flat, the two of you go at each other like dogs in heat.”

He turns to look at John straight in the eyes then continues. “This is the one time that I am going to let you go. You need to sort through your feelings, your desires, and come to a conclusion as to what you want. Take tonight to make your decision.” Sherlock turns back to the window and lets out a long sigh, his breath fogging up the glass. 

John lets out a hard scoff and shakes his head, slowly twisting the doorknob. “Sherlock. There is nothing for me to sort out. I know my desires. And they're for you.” Opening the door an inch he continues, “Sebastian was a mistake. One that won't happen again. It's always been you... Sherlock. Always.” John fights the urge to stalk over to Sherlock, grab his face, and snog him senseless, and instead he turned and opened the door.

“I Need the night to myself, John.” Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf and briskly walks out of the office, pushing John out of the way as he passed and began walking down the hall.

“Sherlock! Wait!” John calls after him. Sherlock neither stops, nor speeds up, so John took his chance. It only took him a moment to catch up to the detective and he grabs him by the arms and pushes him, rather roughly, against the wall. Sherlock is far too taken aback by John’s behavior to do much more than blink down at him. 

John glances around, other than the ever watching security cameras, they were alone. John seizes the moment, and what is probably his only chance, he leans up and smashes their lips together in a needy, desperate kiss. The kiss lasts much longer than it had any right too, and when John pulls away Sherlock’s expression has softened every so slightly, though he was still guarded. John reaches up and cups a hand tensely around Sherlock’s face.

“Take me home? Do anything you want to me, fuck me, yell at me, hell - ignore me for weeks on end. But don't make me watch you leave. Please? I know I deserve it, don't deserve your forgiveness. But Sherlock, I'll do anything to earn it. Sherlock... 

Sherlock doesn’t pull away from John, doesn’t look disgusted that John had just kissed him, instead he leans against the wall. He takes a moment, to take in the situation. He can see that John is genuine, there is no hint of deviance or betrayal

"I am at a loss, John, I care for you so deeply, but, Moran.”

“Sebastian was my past. We split for... Very good reasons. You... Are my present. My future? You're all I want.”

John pulls away slightly, leaving space between them so Sherlock doesn’t feel trapped. He leans up for a second kiss, and finds a tiny morsel of hope in the solitary fact that Sherlock doesn’t pull away or recoil. 

“Sherlock, what I did today,” John’s my voice breaks and tears pool up in his eyes, “kissing him back. That was a mistake. One I'll regret for the rest of my godforsaken life. But it will,” John’s voice drops an octave and he shakes his head sadly, “will  _ never _ happen again. And that is a promise. I'll even sleep in my room tonight. I just... Can't bear to watch you leave.” 

Sherlock's face is flushed and hot from all the intense emotions. He takes in a deep breath and finally speaks, voice low but steady. “Let's go finish this domestic at Baker Street.”

John’s shoulders sag in relief and he pulls away from the wall, letting Sherlock take the lead. He stay quiet, and doesn’t argue when Sherlock decides to walk the short distance home as the idea John follows Sherlock up their creaky set of stairs. John casts a guilty glance at the kitchen, and at the four mugs still sitting around in the lounge.

“Do.. you want me to leave you alone? Or…” John trails off, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited for Sherlock’s verdict.

Sherlock slowly hangs up his scarf and coat then surveyed the lounge, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the mugs.

“I'll be doing some work on the computer this evening, John.” Sherlock grabs his laptop, walks down the hall. steps into bedroom and shuts the door.

**“** Right…” John exhales forcefully and stalks over to the fridge in  hopes of taking a few beers up to his old room. He finds the fridge depressingly empty. Of both alcohol, and food. He heads to the door, about to leave, when he thinks better of leaving without alerting Sherlock first. 

“Sherlock, I'm going out to get beer, maybe some milk, bread too. Do you need anything?” John is met with silence, so he purses his lips and mutters, “Right... I take that as a no.”

Once in his room Sherlock strips himself of his suit and redresses in pajama pants, t-shirt and his blue dressing gown. Sherlock lies down on his bed in full on sulk mode. He has never  _ ever  _ had feelings for another human being. His very limited (and very few) sexual experiences ad been completely casual, contact was never made afterward. But this, with John, was an entirely different situation. Sherlock had genuine feelings, emotions, for this man. He understood that his two-year disappearance had hurt John a great deal,but pouncing on a former lover, in  _ their kitchen, _ while he sat in the very next room was nearly unforgivable. 

He could hear John digging through the fridge, almost told him that it was empty, and also heard him asking about the shop. But he wasn’t ready to talk to John, he knew that one crooked smile from the doctor’s lips would make his knees go weak in an instant. So he remained silent and stayed in bed. 

Outside John hailed a taxi. As he crawled into the back seat he asked to be taken to the nearest Tesco and sat back, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. The cab pulls away from the curb, old seventies tunes fill the cabin and the divider between passenger and driver is slowly raised. 

The closet Tesco's is only a few blocks away, so close that John could have walked, and after ten minutes in the cab John suddenly realizes that the drive has been far too long. He leans forward and raps on the divider, it lowers less than an inch.

Uh, driver? We've passed Tesco. Take this right up here, and we'll swing back.”

The doors are suddenly locked and the taxi stops at a red light. The glass between John and the driver slowly opens, and a dark grins appears, with piercing eyes hidden under a black cap, the driver is none other than Jim Moriarty himself.

“Sorry... Tesco is not on my way.”

John's hands move to his pocket, he doesn't want to spook Moriarty into doing something crazy, so he fingers his mobile and presses a series of buttons that he  _ hopes  _ will call Sherlock, even if it just goes to voicemail. He needs someone to know.

“Jim. Of course.” John scoffs. “As if Sherlock's anger isn't bad enough. What? Going to kill me now? Just.. get it over with.”

“Oh,” Jim smiles playfully, “you can call whoever you want, my dear Watson.” He chuckles while watching the army doctor struggle to covertly use his phone. “I was just trying to be helpful you know, I've found a nice place for you to stay tonight, far from Sherlock's anger and you're thanking me with an attitude? I'm a bit disappointed.”

 

**Unknown factory along the Thames:**

They drive for nearly a half hour, finally stopping by an old factory on the far side of the Thames. Jim takes off his cap and tosses it onto the empty seat beside him while flashing John a crazed smile. “It's very cosy, you’re gonna love it.”

“Sherlock and I were working things out, thank you. Don't really require your help. Nor do I fancy staying in an old factory... It has the air of, torture to it. Not exactly my cup of tea.”

“I know it's a bit old and dusty but trust me, it has a lot of potential. I plan on decorating it tonight, little bit of blood goes a long way.” He snaps his fingers and a group of men set out of the shadows and drag John out of the taxi. John doesn't fight, 6 against one isn’t very good odds, and chances are they were all armed. One man, a burly red headed man, grabs John's wrists and ties them together with a zip tie.

“To be honest I like to get my hand dirty sometimes, but already did it today.” Moriarty offers John a guilty smile as he steps out of the car and buttons his suit jacket. 

Anger boils in John's chest and he growls through gritted teeth, now fighting against the 6 men, but to no avail. Panic takes over, and squashes down the anger, he knew what was coming once he was brought inside the factory. 

“So what, then? What do you have planned for me, James?” 

Moriarty puts his hands in his pockets and walks slowly to John with a mysterious smile.

“Either Jim, or King Jim, please, James is just so old fashion.” Moriarty leads the men, and John, inside, and they enter into a wide open factory space full of old dusty machines, and continues. “Well, the game will be simple this time but I’m not one to for doomsday speeches. So instead, let me ask you a question. How you manage to only attract heartless bastards?”

Jim steps a bit closer to John, only stopping when his body is two inches away from John’s, and breaths deeply, inhaling John's scent with an approving grin. “Expensive cologne, probably a gift from an ex-wife?”

**“** First of all!” John's anger was back, which was good. Anger was better than panic. “Sherlock is  _ not _ a heartless bastard. That man has a heart of gold. Hell, he doesn't hate me after tonight… That alone is a testament to the size of Sherlock's heart.” Moriarty steps an inch closer and John lets out a low growl, a warning. 

“Ex-wife? No, threw that shit out ages ago. Been using Sherlock's body wash, if you're curious.” Keep him talking, John thought, anything to keep him talking and prolong the imminent torture, giving Sherlock time to find him.

**“** Threw that shit out ages ago. Hmm... What a very rude boy we have here.” Jim says, not to anyone in particular. His grin grows wide and he turns to his men. “Bring him over here.”

They climb up an old metal staircase to the second floor, more of a balcony where the dolce St machinery was kept, half of them broke. All of them covered in inches of dust. Jim leads them to an old printing press, and picks up a duffel bag that was on the floor, placing it on an old table. 

“This building used to be a paper factory, in its heyday, they were printing thousands of newspaper each day. So they needed strong and heavy machine... Some of them still work actually... Would you like to see?” Jim turns to John with his usual blank look.

**“** No. Not particularly. A beer would be nice, preferably a cold one. All this dust is making me a bit thirsty.” John looks around and fights back the tingle of panic that is creeping over his neck.

Moriarty lets out a mad cackle, and it echoes through the building. He walks over to John and plunges his hands into John’s trouser pockets, smirking when his fingers wrap around John’s mobile. “No more calling your little boyfriend.” He waves the mobile in John’s face before putting it in his breast pocket. “I think Sherlock needs some time to think about your  _ relationship _ don’t you? And I don’t know about the beer, but I think,” Moriarty spun around on his heels and tilted his head as he took in the machinery behind them, “that I’ll open up a little tattoo shop. I’ll even let you be my first customer!”

Moriarty turns to two of his men and snaps his fingers. They immediately let go of John and head over to the largest of the machines. It was an older press, that had a sort of vice on it, it looked to John like it was something that had been used back in the early 1900’s.   
  
“This, my dear Doctor, is a hot metal typesetting machine. I won't bore you with the details on how it works. Instead,” Moriarty’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, “I’ll  _ show _ you.”   
A machine whirls to life and John momentarily let the panic take hold of him. He tries to fight off them men holding him, manages to knock one man down and wind another. The zip tie bites at John’s skin, and it doesn’t take long for two much larger, and stronger, men to subdue him. A crazed laughter fills the room and Jim starts clapping.

“Oooh! I love it when my prey put on a show for me! Makes it so… much more romantic. It’s all about the foreplay, John. Something I’m sure Sherlock knows nothing about.”

“By the way,” he continues, as he begins going through the duffle bag, “this has nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not torturing his cheating boyfriend for him. This is because you touched Moran.”

“Which time.” John snorted in disgust. “When you and Sherlock decided it would be incredibly clever to run off together? Or for today, when he pounced on me, cornered me, and brought up old feelings? Do I even want to know what you did to Sebastian? Is he even alive?”

About Sebastian... let's say I've just customized that bullet wound you gave him. And at the moment, well he's probably drinking as much as he can until he forgets his own name.” Jim turns and points to an old metal chair that John hadn’t noticed until now. “Put him there.” 

“You know, I've been working a lot the past few years. But not to run away with your dear detective, the idea just makes me want to vomit. I'm just here to remind you where you place truly his. And that is far,  _ far _ from Moran.” Moriarty leans over a now sitting John, their noses touching. “So today, I’m going to give you a nice tattoo, as a reminder of your earlier  _ blunder. _ ”

“Bring it.” Moriarty stood and without looking held out his hands.” 

Once again, John fights, but he’s quickly pushed back down into the chair and two strong hands remain on his shoulders. Panic is threatening to take over, John’s neck is flushed, he’s beginning to sweat, and his vision is going spotty.  _ “Don’t panic, Watson. You’ll black out…. Relax…”  _ He sucks in one long, deep breath then exhales. 

“Tattoo me, and you’ll regret it.” His voice is small, not nearly as strong and threatening as he was hoping for. But he manages to snarl out the end, and a bit of spit lands on Jim’s face.

Jim growls and takes his handkerchief out of his pocket, cleans his face, then shows John the strange device that had been placed into his hands mere seconds before. He holds out his other hand, and a small wire circle.

“Do you know what this is?” Moriarty asks, a wicked smile playing on his lips “This is called a Bolito. You could say it is a… battery-powered strangulation device. A mechanical noose, if you will. I’ve been told that it can be used on limbs as well!” As Jim talks, he begins feeding the loop through the device. “You see, your hands were all over my property today, such naughty hands, they need to be punished. And,” Sebastian seizes John’s hands and places the loop of wire around his wrists, “if you struggle, you might even get to say goodbye to them!”

A wave of nausea hits John and he squeezes his eyes shut as his stomach lurches. His military training had gone over torture, but that had been years ago, and now the panic was acting like a foggy blanket between him and his ability to remember how he should behave. However, he did remember being told to cooperate, pissing your captor off was a surefire way to make things worse for yourself.

So John remains silent, but he watches the device with a clenched jaw. Jim presses a button, and the little machine attached to the wire began to crank. The wire began feeding back through the device, slowly tightening its way around his wrists. 

_ “I deserve this…”  _ John thought, as the device kept tightening…  _ “Guilt! Focus on the guilt, Watson. Perhaps it’ll outweigh the panic.” _

“It will slowly tighten until it cuts your skin and then your bones... Beware though, it's a very sensitive toy;  the more you move, the quicker it will tighten.” Jim says in a sing song voice as he begins taking what appeared to be large metal letters out of the bag. “What could I tattoo on your arse,Doctor Watson? My initials? Long live the king? Hmmm…”

“How about,” John licks his lips, his eyes never moving off of the device, his voice full of sarcasm. “We forget the tattoo, and we just part as  _ really _ good friends?”

“How about you shut up, Doctor? Let me concentrate. Don't worry about the ink, I’m only going to dip the letters in it, what doesn’t burn into your skin will wash off in a few weeks.  _ If _ you’re lucky.” Jim snaps his fingers and John is lifted from the chair and forced to lay down on the table attached to the typesetting machine. The motion wiggles the device, which temporarily speeds up, making the wire touch John’s skin.

“Easy on him, I said my toy is very sensitive!” Moriarty only half heartedly rebukes his men, who step away laughing. “I do apologize, Doctor Watson, I’m not really feeling inspired tonight… so I think I’ll go for ‘traitor; printed in large letters on your chest.” He holds up a letter ‘T’ that was only slightly smaller than a credit card. “Is that alright? Or would you want a flower to go with it?”

“Just a flower. I'm feeling especially pretty.” John snarled, keeping his hands as still as possible, that is, until Moriarty grabbed his wrists and forced them above his head with a grin. The wire was now cutting into his skin, leaving it very hard to relax. “Don't get ink on my jumper... Mummy made it for me, she wouldn't be pleased if you ruined it.”

 

**221B Baker Street**

 

Back home, the need for tea had brought Sherlock out of his pout and into the kitchen. As the kettle heats, he decides to check his mobile which he had left in his coat pocket. Grabbing it, he heads back to watch the kettle, and turns the mobile on. One message from John. He nearly doesn’t listen to it but halfway through the message he dashes into the bedroom and throws his clothes back on, not even bothering to fully button up his shirt. Hopping on one foot he gets his socks and shoes on, then dashes back into the kitchen and just remembers to turn the stove off before snatching his coat and scarf. He dashes out the door, hails a taxi, not even sure where to start looking.    
  
“Just,  _ drive! _ ” he shouts, as he frantically calls his brother. He  _ must _ find John Watson. 

 

**Abandoned Factory:**

 

**“** You'll just have to ask her to make another jumper and, for our eyes' sake, tell her to put less colours in the next one.” One of his men hands him a pair of scissors so Jim begins to cut open John’s jumper, then his shirt, pulling the layers to the side to reveal his chest.    
  
“What is it about this skin…” Moriarty trails the point of the scissors down John’s chest, “that Sebastian loves so much?” he sticks his tongue out and makes a face as if he’d just eaten rotten food. “Just thinking about you two, makes me sick.”

“Skin?” John laughs coolly, “Seb never loved me for my skin. We fucked because it was the only thing either of us had felt in _ months _ . You two don't realize what the fuck you did to us. You left us. The two men you both claimed to have feelings for. However fucked up your feelings for Seb might be, You…” John catches a glint in Moriarty’s eyes that frightens him more than whatever amount of torture was in store for him, and then all he feels is white hot pain as someone’s fist comes in contact with his jaw. John flinches, and feels the metal wire tighten enough that John knows he’s bleeding. 

“If I'm not mistaken, I asked you to  _ shut up _ !” Jim yells the last two words then smiles as if nothing were wrong. He waves aside the man who had punched John, then pulls a blowtorch from the bag. On the press above John, he arranges the letters to spell out the word ‘traitor’ then aims the blowtorch at them.

“You can fuck who you want when I'm away John Watson,” Both men watch as the letters heat up, “but  _ not  _ Sebastian! I must warn you, this might burn a little bit…” One of Jim’s men hands him a large paintbrush with something black dripping from it, and Jim brushes the black ink over the hot letters.

Despite John’s resolve to remain calm, he tries desperately to pull back, away from the large plate that was now slowly bearing down on him. As the searing hot metal presses down into his skin, his scream was mixed with Moriarty’s manic laughter. John’s vision goes white and bile rises in his throat. As the printing device is pulled away, the letters rip away from burnt flesh and John lets out a gargled scream as he tries not to pass out.

“I promised Sebastian that I wouldn't hurt you physically.” Moriarty shrugs, “I guess I lied, just like you both did this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I should definitely open a tattoo shop.” Jim grins, as he surveys his handiwork. ‘TRAITOR’ is now written on John’s chest in capital letters.

“I never lied.” John barks through gritted teeth. “I would never lie to Sherlock. I was just about to tell him about Seb and I’s past relationship when you lot showed up and ruined what would have been a perfectly fine evening!” John had forgotten about the device on his wrists, but now the pain was too much to ignore. He was feeling woozy, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was from his new brand, or the amount of blood he’d lost.

“Well, I guess we won't need this anymore.” Jim releases the device around John’s wrists, and cuts the zip tie, knowing John was far too weak to fight now. He leans forward, and inspects John’s wrists with morbid excitement. “I told you to move as less as possible, haven't I ? Now look at your hands, poor John. This little play date of ours has been fun, but I fear it is nearing the end.” Jim seizes John by the hair and forces him to stand up before dragging him to the balcony overlooking the lower floor, and the door they had entered from.

“You know what else would be fun?” John sways as Jim releases his hair, and catches himself on the railing, crying out in pain. “Push me over, that’ll be buckets of fun.”

“Push you over ? Hm no, that sounds sooo two years ago, and that's boring. I try never to repeat myself.” Jim grabs John’s hair again and calls for his men. “I'm just going to give you a nice view of the area. Bring the ropes, and tie him well to the railing. Don’t you dare let him fall!”    
  
Jim sinks to a crouch, his face inches from John’s. He traces a finger along John’s jaw and tutts softly.

“I don't have a wooden cross nor a crow made of thorns, you'd make a marvelous martyr, Johnny boy. And you know what ? I'll send the picture to your friends for you.”

With some difficulty, four men hoist John up and over the railing while the other two begin lacing ropes around him, attaching his back to the railing. Once John’s back is secured, they stretch his arms out on either side of him, and tie them securely to the railing, leaving his feet free and dangling below the balcony. The ropes are tight, cutting off both circulation and breath while cutting sharply into the burns on John’s chest. John is now quickly losing both the battle to remain calm, and conscious. The realization that with his wrists bleeding out like they were, he could very well die like this, did little to help him.

Moriarty practically prances down the stairs, yells up for John to smile, then snaps a picture with John’s mobile  before rejoining his men on the second floor. 

“Hmmm… how’s this sound?  _ Getting high in a funny place, come and join me before I slip into oblivion. - JW  _  is it too.. Melodramatic?” Without waiting for anyone to answer he hits sends the text and the picture to Sherlock then places John’s mobile just out of John’s reach.

“Alright, it's done ! I'll just leave your mobile here, on the balcony. That way, you'll be able to pick up if he chooses to call you. Oh, I'm sorry, I almost forgot you can't move your arms now. Well, goodbye, Doctor Watson!”    
  
With that, Moriarty, and his men, leave the building through a rear entrance, leaving John alone, bleeding out on the balcony. John glances over at his mobile, and tries to reach it, but it is just a hair out of his touch, and the effort exhausted him. He lets out a frustrated yell, then sags against his bonds.

“Please, Sherlock, don’t be late…” 

 

**Taxi, somewhere in London:**

 

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had recently put a GPS tracking device into the doctor's mobile. So, in between shouting directions to the cab driver, he kept watching where Watson's mobile was pinging. Just as he was about to scream yet another change in direction a text message dinged. Sherlock saw at once that it had been sent from John's phone. Nervously, he opened it, and the image that appeared on the screen was enough to make Sherlock heart stop for a moment: It was John, covered in blood, his own presumably, bound with ropes and electrical cords, suspended in the air. Sherlock could barely breathe, but upon further inspection of the picture, he knew exactly where Moriarty had him. He quickly told the cabbie where to go, then he messaged the only person he knew that could and would provide the support he needed.

_ “URGENT! Send both Lestrade and the best SWAT men you have to the abandoned printing press factory near the Thames. Moriarty has John...and is severely torturing him. PLEASE HELP!” _ __  
__  
It wasn’t much like Sherlock to say please, or to ask for help for that matter, but this was John. He would say, or do whatever it took to ensure John’s return to him, fight or no fight. He knew now that he could not lose John. He copies the text, and sends it to Lestrade, not bothering to change the wording, there was no time to be picky right now. Within seconds Greg responds with a single text.

_ “On my way.” _

Sherlock has the cabbie drop him off about a quarter of a mile away from the factory. Assessing the layout, he decides to make his way in through a side door. Stealthily, he quickly ascends the rickety metal stairs to the upper floor....where he sees his doctor, bound and bleeding. From John’s position, there was no way Sherlock could get him down safely without help, and alerting John to his presence would only excite the poor doctor, so he sneaks back out the way he came and is just in time to see Greg hop out of his car.

Greg arrives at the factory ten minutes after Sherlock. Sherlock is rushing towards the building, blind to his own safety, but Greg call’s him back.

“We need to be smart about this, Sherlock. Need to know what we’re up against.”

“He’s alone!” Sherlock yells, arms flailing in the direction of the building, “Bleeding out!” 

“How do you k-”

“I’ve already been in! Watched them leave, though three of his men stayed behind, they’re a quarter of a mile down the road, held up in the old security building!” With that, Sherlock dashes back towards the building, Greg and half his men on his heels. 

A noise catches John’s attention and he lifts his head a little, too tired to lift it more than half an inch or so off his chest. The noise gets closer and he lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. Someone, Greg, probably, was on their way. 

Greg follows Sherlock through a few halls, up a set of old stairs. One more hall leads into a large open room, where on the far side they could see John’s back. Even from here, from this angle, it didn’t look good. Before Greg can warn Sherlock that the room might be boobie trapped, Sherlock has dashed halfway across the room, and is by John’s side in under 15 seconds.

“Hey…” John mutters, trying to look up as Sherlock’s hands roam whatever part of John’s body they could reach.

“Shh.” Sherlock orders and begins tugging at the ropes, turning to face Greg and his men, “For  _ god’s sake, HELP ME!”  _

“Will need,” John grunts as Sherlock and three other men work on his bonds, “two.. maybe three pints of blood. My blood type..” 

“Hush, John.” Sherlock says again, and one arm falls limp to his side, a hand slips under his armpit to help hold him up.

“I.. probably have fibers from the rope stuck in my chest wound… infection…” Another arm goes free, two strong men hold him up via his armpits as the last of the ropes around his torso are cut and he’s roughly dragged up over the railing to lay on the floor beside Sherlock. 

“I know your blood type, and I’ll make sure you get the best doctor in London.” Sherlock places a hand on John’s face and tries not to look concerned. “You’ll be fine…” 

The last thing John hears before falling unconscious, was Greg softly telling Sherlock that the ambulance was pulling in, and that Donovan had arrested  three men.

Sherlock has never seen anything as horrifying as this  _ his  _ John, bleeding, limp, in severe pain. He removes the loose ropes that lay draped over John’s body. He takes his coat off, balls it up and places it under John’s head. 

“The paramedics will be here soon, John, just hold on…” 

They only have to wait a few minutes before the door below them opens and two men carrying a gurney walk in. Without waiting for instruction, Sherlock scoops John up and carries him down the stairs. The paramedics assist in securing John to the gurney and as they begin to push John from the building, Sherlock whispers, “I love you, John, forever. I’m so sorry this happened.” 

John’s eyes flutter open, and he starts to nod, but a wave of nausea overcomes him so instead he smiles weakly. 

“Stay with me?”

“Always.”

Greg doesn’t try to stop Sherlock from riding in the back of the ambulance with John. Instead he simply tells Sherlock that he’ll be right behind them, and that he would alert Mycroft of their situation. Once at the hospital, Greg flashes his badge and informs anyone who would listen that at no point was Sherlock Holmes to be separated from John Watson. 

“Sherlock!” Greg yelled, as Sherlock followed the gurney, and the doctors, down the hall, “Keep me in the loop, yea?”

“Yes! Fine!” Sherlock shouts back, just before the double doors close behind him.

Four hours later, two of which had consisted of surgery and blood transfusions, John wakes up in a dimly lit hospital room. Sherlock is by his side, holding one of his hands, And Greg is just outside his door, presumably on his mobile. John grunts and tries to sit up, which causes Sherlock to stir. 

“Don’t get up, John.” Sherlock says softly, squeezing his hand. 

“Sherlock?” John looks around the room, confused, unable to immediately remember why he was here. “Ohh….” He sighed, slumping back into the bed as the events of the evening came crashing back into his memory. “I... got a new tattoo.”   
  
John’s eyes travel from his bandaged wrists, to his hand, up the IV line… morphine and fluids, he hated morphine. His eyes then glance down at his chest, which is now covered in bandages, and he lets out a disgusted grunt.

“He's insane, Sherlock. Completely unstable.”

Greg looks through the window into the room, and sees that John is awake. He relays the information to Mycroft, then knocks. John nods him in, and looks up at him.

“Might as well get the questioning out of the way now, Greg. While I have the energy. Sherlock says he won't be leaving tonight so...  _ our _ ... conversation can wait a few more minutes.” 

“No.” Greg walks over to John and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. “The questioning can wait, John, I’m here as a friend. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

John nods very slowly then he legs out a breath and he drags a hand over his face, noticing again the bandages on his wrists.  “Yeah. It appears that  I'll live. Bitch of a way to get a tattoo though. Next time I'll look up reviews online.” 

Greg chuckled slightly before pinching the bridge of his nose, a worried look crosses over his face. “That shouldn’t be funny.” 

“Its how I cope, Greg.” John shrugs sadly, “Thanks, by the way,  for finding me. I assume Moriarty got away.” Both Greg and Sherlock nod solemnly, “Right, do me a favor,” John glances over at Sherlock and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “check the hospitals... see if anyone else came in with signs of torture... I fear I'm not the only one Moriarty's gotten his hands on tonight.”

After a nod of agreement from Sherlock, Greg jots down Moran’s height, hair color, and general appearance down and leaves the room to go make a few calls. Once alone in the room, John looks over at Sherlock and sighs.

“Thanks. I’m not having him look for Moran because I have left over feelings. But… I can’t help worrying, Sherlock.” John closes his eyes, feeling sleepy from the morphine. “But... I'm too tired to fight... Just want to wake up and have today be nothing more than a nightmare. I want to wake up with your arms around me, the smell of home, Mrs. Hudson's tea... Want to kiss you, but I can't even lift myself off this fucking bed.” 

“John,” Sherlock leans down and kisses John’s forehead. “we need never to speak of any of this ever again. I just need you....nothing else.” He leans down again, this time kissing JOhn on the lips while smoothing John’s hair back. “I'm staying with you here in hospital. You rest. I have far too much pent up energy to be of any good to you currently, so I’m going to go amuse myself around the ward. I wonder if they would let me borrow a defibrillator?” With one more kiss and a soft smile, Sherlock slips out of the room, his heart lighter for the knowledge that John Watson would be alright.

John sighs and rests his head against the pillows, willing sleep to come take him. At first, the image of Moriarty standing over him is too strong, and he hears beeping of the monitors growing faster. It wasn’t until he heard Sherlock’s voice, not far away, sweet talking his way into getting a defibrillator, that John was able to find sleep.

 


End file.
